


DL486

by Shay081793



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay081793/pseuds/Shay081793
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Attention passengers of flight 486 to LaGuardia. We are experiencing some delays and will be grounded until further notice. We apologize for any inconvenience."</p>
            </blockquote>





	DL486

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Maria for being a wonderful beta and cheerleader! You're the bomb dot com.

The area is cramped and crowded, but Bucky manages to find an empty seat somewhere at the very back of the terminal. He drops his bags to the ground carelessly and looks up at the monitor to make sure he’s at the right gate. When he confirms that he is, he sits down in the hard airport chair and makes himself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as he’s going to get.

Washington D.C. à New York LaGuardia 11:05 PM is displayed on the screen and Bucky lets out a breath. He’s a frequent traveler, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. If it were up to him, he’d reside in Manhattan full time and he wouldn’t bother with all of this back and forth nonsense that Hill saddles him up with. But it is what it is, so Bucky has learned to make the best of it.

He plugs his headphones into his phone, finds some soothing music, and scans over the people in front of him. If nothing else, he can at least entertain himself by people watching. There’s a man in Army fatigues in the corner, propped up against the gray wall and nodding off ever so slightly. Across from him there is a family with two toddlers, both of whom are both clearly hopped up on sugar and racing around their parents. The woman looks about ready to tear her hair out, but the man watches the children with an endeared look on his face.

Bucky shifts in his seat and looks in the other direction. A man and his wife are arguing over something Bucky can’t quite hear, a young girl reading a book and— _hello_.

Bucky meets a lot of good looking men in his line of work, but he’s never seen anyone quite as attractive as the man who’s made himself at home in the corner by the large windows: blonde hair stuck up in every which way, black-rimmed glasses that cover large blue eyes and shoulders that go on forever. Bucky can tell he’s tall, even though he’s sitting, and he has some type of sketchbook balanced precariously on one of his thighs.

Bucky is in the process of cataloguing every single inch of the man’s physique when a loud noise overhead jars him out of it. The man doesn’t even look up.

“Attention passengers of flight 486 to LaGuardia. We are expecting delays, as the aircraft has not yet arrived from its previous flight. We will do everything we can to make the turnover as quick and efficient as possible. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

Bucky frowns and immediately the crowd around him erupts into furious shouting and groaning. Bucky looks back over at the artist who _still_ hasn’t even batted an eye. Bucky wonders if he didn’t hear, or simply doesn’t care. And if he doesn’t care, what is it about him that makes him immune to shitty travel fuck-ups?

Another announcement is made overhead telling the passengers it’ll be at least an hour before they can get on their way, and even Bucky groans out loud this time. A line at the desk is forming rapidly, presumably of people who “desperately need to get out ASAP.” Bucky resigns himself to his fate and scoots down to the edge of his seat so he can prop his head against the back. He closes his eyes and attempts to zone out, but something about the man in the glasses demands to be looked at again.

People are starting to move away from the terminal, probably to find something to do to kill time. The man still hasn’t moved and Bucky is interested so he figures ‘what the hell.’ He grabs his bag off the floor and plops down next to the stranger.

“Hi,” he says. Never let it be said that Bucky Barnes can’t approach a hot guy.

The man finally – _finally_ – looks up and the surprise on his face could quite possibly be one of the most endearing things Bucky has ever seen, and holy mother of fuck, is he beautiful up close.

“Uh, hi?”

“Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says and holds out a hand to shake.

The man looks wary for a second, then wipes his hand on his jeans and extends it to meet Bucky’s. “Steve Rogers,” he says.

“Nice to meet you, Steve.”

Steve smiles – and _god damn_ – and looks down at his art, a small blush on his cheeks.

“You, too, Bucky.”

It’s silent for a moment and if Bucky were more insecure, he’d be panicking and regretting he came over here. However, Bucky is no such thing and leans back against the wall, surveying the scene from a different angle.

“So, you don’t seem upset about the delay,” he says casually.

He can see Steve look up in his peripheral vision. “What delay?”

Bucky turns to look at Steve with a raised eyebrow. “Seriously? We’re delayed for an hour at the very least and if you ask me, we’re not getting out of here until two at the earliest.”

Steve frowns. “Oh. That’s… unfortunate.”

“Yeah, buddy, it is.” Bucky nudges Steve’s shoulder with his own and nods to the paper. “What’re you working on?”

Steve hesitates and then extends his sketchbook to Bucky. Bucky reaches for it with his left and Steve stalls. Bucky looks up and finds Steve drinking in every inch of his skin and he smirks.

“Like what you see?”

“It’s beautiful,” Steve replies, nodding.

The intricate lines and artwork of Bucky’s tattoos are a beauty to behold, Bucky will admit. It took him two years to complete his sleeve, hours of being poked and prodded with ink-filled needles, months of healing and sleeping exclusively on his right side, but it all paid off. Bucky wouldn’t change his left arm for the world.

But Steve can only see a few inches of it, what with Bucky’s long sleeved shirt being pushed up to the crook of his elbow, and Bucky can tell he wants to see more. He doesn’t ask, though, so Bucky doesn’t offer. Instead, he tugs at the thick, leather-bound sketchbook and lets his eyes roam over the paper.

The artwork on the page is stunning. It’s a realistic sketch of the terminal. Bucky spots the soldier he saw earlier and also, himself. It’s interesting to see himself like that – from someone else’s perspective. A _stranger’s_ perspective. It’s not like a picture or a mirror where he can stare endlessly at the features he hates, because in Steve’s drawing those features don’t exist. On Steve’s page, he looks confident, calm, taking up a lot more space than he remembers doing and looking like he _belongs_ in the center of the page where Steve put him.

“It’s good,” Bucky says and hands back the sketchbook.

“Thanks. I don’t always show people my stuff, you know. You should feel honored,” Steve teases when he takes back the book and places it gently in his backpack.

“I bet you say that to all the pretty ladies,” Bucky jokes and Steve’s smile turns wicked.

“All the pretty _boys_ , actually.” And Bucky’s heart jumps to his throat.

Of course he went over to Steve because he thought Steve was, let’s face it, hot as fucking hell, and yeah he was going to feel out if maybe he had a shot, but he didn’t _actually_ expect anything other than a polite decline and maybe a friendly conversation to kill time.

This, though. This could be something interesting.

“You callin’ me pretty, Rogers?”

“You’re too—“

“Attention passengers of flight 486 to LaGuardia. The aircraft is experiencing some mechanical difficulties. We have called in the mechanic but it may take a while. We will be grounded until further notice.”

Bucky’s first instinct is to let out a string of curses, but really he’s just stuck on what Steve was about to say before the fucking PA-system interrupted. He’s too _what_ exactly?

“Looks like we’ll be here a while. Want to go find something to eat? Someplace quieter?” Steve suggests, already pushing himself up to his feet.

Bucky nods and takes Steve’s hand that’s offered to pull him up.

**

As it turns out, every single food establishment – or any establishment, really – in the airport closes after eleven-thirty, so Steve and Bucky are shit out of luck.

“How can they close every single place to get food? That should be illegal,” Bucky grouses when they look up at the map of the airport. None of the good restaurants were in their terminal in the first place, so they traveled twenty minutes for a hamburger only to be confronted with an empty, gated Shake Shack.

“Hey, c’mere,” Steve says and takes off in the opposite direction.

No flights seem to be leaving from terminal B and the entire hallway is deserted and cloaked in semi-darkness. It’s creepy, even for Bucky’s standards, but somehow, with Steve, he doesn’t mind so much.

Steve leads them to a vending machine that buzzes _just_ loudly enough for Bucky to hear that it’s on.

“Let’s each pick a few things and we’ll share. Makeshift dinner.” Steve grins cheekily at Bucky and his heart stutters. Goddamn that man has a nice smile. _That_ should be illegal, forget closing restaurants after midnight.

“Fine, but no Cheetos. There’s only so much artificial crap a body can handle,” Bucky replies and pulls his beaten leather wallet out of his back pocket. He’s due for a new one, desperately, but his father gave him this one right before it – well, before, and Bucky’s not ready to let that go just yet.

“Only if you don’t pick Reese’s. Peanut allergy,” Steve says with a crooked grin.

“Wouldn’t want to kill you right after I met you. Seems like bad etiquette,” Bucky agrees teasingly. He shoves a dollar into the machine and presses A3, watching as the spiral shifts and drops down a bag of plain Lays chips.

“So there’s a murder grace period?”

“More or less. Your turn.”

Steve pulls a handful of rumpled bills from his pocket and stares at the machine. He eyes Bucky, then bites his lip, which sends Bucky’s train of thought down an entirely filthy path.

“You gonna choose something, pal?” Bucky prompts, just so he doesn’t start thinking about how much he’d rather have his own teeth sunken down in Steve’s lips hard enough to bruise.

God. If there were such a thing as too attractive, Steve would be it. As it is, Bucky’s having a hard time controlling himself.

“Well you already picked the blandest option in the entire universe and I don't want to end up with something you don’t like,” Steve says.

“I’ll eat anything.” Bucky crosses his arms and leans one shoulder against the vending machine. It doesn’t escape his notice when Steve’s eyes travel back down to his tattoo and he licks his lips.

“Except Cheetos,” Steve points out after a second-too-long hesitation.

“Except Cheetos,” Bucky agrees and he smiles.

Steve finally makes a decision and grins triumphantly when a packet of skittles clatters to the bottom of the machine, right next to Bucky’s chips.

“Decent choice. Okay, move, my turn.”

Bucky makes a show of seizing Steve up like Steve did to him and if Steve’s self-conscious about it, he doesn’t show it. And maybe Bucky stares for a few seconds too long, but that shirt is really way too tight around Steve’s shoulders and it hides absolutely nothing, and Bucky would _love_ to shove Steve against the wall and—

No. Food. Priorities.

Steve is smirking knowingly when Bucky looks up and it causes Bucky’s blood to pool in his cheeks. Goddammit, Bucky _never_ blushes.

Bucky shoves two more bills into the machine and picks Oreos, because who doesn’t like Oreos? He raises his eyebrows pointedly at Steve when he’s done and Steve nods, stepping up to the machine with his bills ready like a batter stepping up to plate.

Steve chooses Cheez-Its, which, ew, and Bucky wrinkles his nose in disgust.

Steve frowns when he turns to him. “What? Cheez-Its are delicious.”

“Nothing should ever be _that_ orange,” Bucky says.

“I bet you haven’t even ever tasted them. Come on, Bucky, live a little. One little Cheez-It won’t kill you.”

“How do _you_ know? For all you know I have an artificial cheese flavoring allergy. It could kill me and we already discussed this. No murder until at _least_ a week,” Bucky says, glaring but without real venom to his voice.

Steve raises and eyebrow, giving Bucky an ‘are-you-kidding-me-with-this-bullshit’ look. Bucky just keeps glaring.

“You’re tasting one,” Steve says finally, bending down to scoop all of the food out of the bottom of the machine – and fuck, if that isn’t an excellent view of his ass – and stalks off to the nearest sitting area.

**

The two of them are sitting criss-cross applesauce across from each other on the spectacularly 70s airport carpet. It’s absolutely heinous and neither Bucky nor Steve had any reservations pointing that out. Repeatedly.

“But _artistically_ this design is just so fucking—”

“Please, Rogers, _try_ to sound more pretentious, really, I beg you,” Bucky jabs playfully and Steve glares at him without heat.

Bucky can’t decide if he likes the glower or the smile better and has been trying to bring each of them out in equal measures, because one of them makes his stomach twitch and the other, his dick.

“You’re an ass,” Steve says, finally grinning. He looks down to the pile of food between them and grabs one of his allotted Oreo’s. He’d been _very_ meticulous with the dividing of food, which is another thing Bucky finds stupidly endearing.

He also finally got Bucky to cave and eat one of the Cheez-Its, which still fall low on the list of things Bucky would eat willingly, but admittedly weren’t as bad as he was expecting. Not that he told Steve that.

“Okay, fine, new game then,” Steve says and he pushes the empty chips and Cheez-It bags to the side.

Steve pulls one of his notebooks out of his backpack and lays it on the ground between them, then pulls the bag of Skittles open and pours the insides out.

“Close your eyes. I’m going to give you some and you’re going to guess which flavor they are,” Steve says with such innocent, honest-to-god enthusiasm that Bucky can’t say no, even if he did think this is stupid (he doesn’t).

“Okay.” Bucky obeys immediately. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth, but instead he feels Steve’s hand uncurling his fist and placing a Skittle in there. Steve’s hand is cold but sends shivers up Bucky’s spine for an entirely different reason. Even in the light touch Bucky can feels callouses that can only come from years of holding pencils and working out and he wishes he knew what those hands felt like on _other_ parts of his body.

He blushes at his own train of thought and he’s happy for the pale lighting filtering in from the windows that’s draining any and all color from both their faces.

He brings the candy to his mouth and sucks on it thoughtfully. Honestly, it just tastes sweet to him and he has no idea what it’s _supposed_ to taste like, but he thinks it might be a little lemony, so he goes with that.

“Lemon.” He opens his eyes and grins widely, but his face falls when Steve shakes his head.

“Not even close. It was strawberry.”

Bucky frowns. “I want a do-over,” he demands and Steve nods, gesturing for him to close his eyes and hold out his hand again.

This time, Bucky’s sure he has the right flavor. It’s the same one as last time, he’s positive.

“ _Strawberry_ ,” he says confidently, his tongue still curled around the Skittle.

Steve snorts. “Grape.”

Bucky glowers. “Okay, _you_ try, then,” he challenges and Steve grins wider.

Steve dutifully closes his eyes. Bucky thinks for a second about which flavor will trip Steve up easiest (lemon, he decides) and instead of placing it in Steve’s outstretched palm, he brings the candy to Steve’s lips because he’s a shit and wants to see what Steve’ll do.

Except he didn’t expect Steve to dart his tongue out and capture the tips of Bucky’s fingers between his lips for a split second, and Bucky thinks his brain might short-circuit.

Steve opens his eyes with an eyebrow raised, clearly a challenge, and calm as ever says “Lemon.”

“You’ve played before. You have an unfair advantage.”

“At guessing _Skittles_ flavors?” Steve laughs. “I usually do this with Jelly Beans. This is child’s play.”

“You’re an ass,” Bucky grits out, earning another chuckle from Steve.

“Maybe, but you’re stuck with me.”

**

Another hour passes and the two men have shifted their positions so they’re side by side against the wall, giving them each a sweeping view of the empty terminal and the planes still taking off outside.

They sit in companionable silence, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the outside world that finally seems to be going to sleep. It’s nearing 3 A.M. and Bucky can feel himself go languid the way he always does when it’s late and he’s comfortable. Not that it happens often – there aren’t many people he’s comfortable around nowadays – but it’s happened before, and some of his fondest memories are from the moments he spent baring his soul.

Finally Steve breaks the comfortable silence by tapping his sneaker against Bucky’s boot and saying, “So, where’d you grow up?”

Bucky glances sideways at Steve and smiles, leaning his head back against the wall and crossing his arms comfortably.

“Born and raised – for the most part – in Brooklyn. That was before my parents’ work really took off and we moved to Manhattan. Brooklyn’s home, though, always will be,” he says. His memories of Brooklyn are all tinged with happiness and light, while his ones of Manhattan are… not. It was before everything went to shit.

“Really? Me, too. Coupl’a Brooklyn boys we got here, I guess,” Steve says, letting his accent coat his words and it sends shivers up Bucky’s spine. Brooklyn accents might not be the most appealing accents in the world, but Brooklyn makes Bucky think _happy_ and _home_ and _safe_ and _good_ , and hearing Steve sound so _Brooklyn_ does something to Bucky on an emotional level that he can’t quite comprehend.

Bucky doesn’t really know what to say, his cocky and confident demeanor from earlier slipping into its emotional counterpart, so he stays quiet. He pushes his sleeves up and can almost _feel_ Steve’s eyes taking in every inch of his inked skin.

“Can I… can I see it?” Steve asks hesitantly.

Bucky turns. Usually he hates it when people ask about his tattoo – it’s something intimate and quite frankly, nobody’s business but his own. But Steve’s asking from an artistic standpoint, Bucky knows, and he also finds that he doesn’t mind letting Steve into the deepest corners of his mind. And that surprises him, to say the least.

“It’s, um… it goes up to my shoulder. I’d have to take off my shirt,” Bucky says hesitantly, his eyes darting around the terminal. There’s no one there, of course, and he doubts even the security cameras would take note if he lifted his shirt up a bit.

But when he looks at Steve, he swears he sees his blue eyes darken behind those black glasses and he feels heat coil in the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t mind,” Steve says, and it’s gritty and low and _fuck_ , it’s the hottest thing Bucky’s ever heard.

One side of Bucky’s mouth curves into a devilish smile and he nods, tugging the hem of his shirt up over his head, flexing unnecessarily, enjoying the obvious reaction it’s getting out of Steve.

But then his shirt is off completely and he’s aware of how vulnerable he feels with Steve’s eyes roaming across his skin. He sees Steve’s eyes skim over the scars on his chest, but then really focus on his arm. Bucky isn’t sure which makes him feel more exposed – the scars or the tattoo.

Bucky settles back against the wall and now it’s Steve who turns to get a better look.

“Can I ask – I mean, you don’t have to answer if it’s too personal, obviously, but um, what does. It um. Mean. The tattoo.”

“I don’t mind. It’s just—” Bucky’s about to give his spiel about how really, it’s just because he thought it was pretty, and cool, and it doesn’t _really_ mean anything, but he just thought the skull and the chain link looked badass. But then he catches Steve’s eyes and he finds himself telling the truth.

“A few years ago I was in a… rough place, mentally. I’d just gotten past some rough shit that really messed with my head. That’s what the skull stands for. It’s a permanent reminder to keep my head on straight, I guess,” Bucky starts slowly, choosing his words carefully and stumbling over half of them anyway.

He twists his arm and looks down at the design he drew himself and has seen so many times. The skull on his shoulder, with vines and flowers pushing through one of the eye sockets; the spine that spans down from it, with the ribs morphing into a rough chain link fence that wraps around his entire arm, shaded to perfection; and the anchor that tops out at his hand, hanging from the spine, keeping it in place.

“The fence… It’s… protection. I’m not sure if it’s to keep the outside out or the inside in. And then the anchor.” He twists his hand so Steve has a better view of it. “It’s for my dad. Or because of him. It’s a reminder to always keep myself grounded, ya know? Not to lose myself in my own mind and to remember what’s real and what’s fiction.”

Steve stays quiet for a few beats, which makes Bucky’s cheeks grow hot. He’s not sure if he’s said too much, but then Steve looks up and _fuck._

“Were you close with your dad?” Steve asks, whispering.

Bucky chuckles humorlessly, once, and runs a hand through his hair roughly.

“No. No I was not. He was… well, a dick, really.”

Steve doesn’t say anything and Bucky can feel his stomach turn with emotion.

“God he was such an asshole to me and my mom. When we still lived in Brooklyn he was okay. He worked hard, but he did it for us, ya know? Wanted us to have a good life, even though we already had one. At least, that’s what he said, who knows what the fuck was the truth. And then he fucking died. He got sick, so it wasn’t even a quick death, you know? I had to go over there, to see him in the hospital, even though he’d been a shit dad and an even shittier person to me for so many years. Couldn’t even remember my goddamn Birthday. Not once. Not even when he was still living with us. And god, fuck, all the women. My poor mother. And then he’s dying and he gives me this… this leather wallet.” Bucky pulls the offending object out of his pocket and starts turning it over in his hands.

“This stupid leather wallet and this… this letter, telling me all the things he supposedly never could, and how much he loved me and how proud he was of what I’d become. It was fucking… how could he? How _dare_ he try to make up for everything he’d done when he was _dying_ with a motherfucking… _letter_. I mean, God, who does that? And I just went off the rails. I… some shit happened and my memory got all fucked and I had that letter and for a while I believed it. And my poor mother. I kept going on and on about how much I missed him and how great he was, and finally I remembered what a fucking shit he was and I hated myself so much for those few months when I didn’t remember. I hated him. I hate him. And what does that mean for me, that I can’t get rid of that stupid wallet and that stupid letter that I always keep on me? How pathetic does that make me, Steve?”

Bucky looks up and his throat hurts and his words are thick and his vision is blurred. Never, not once, has he ever told anyone that, not even Natasha, and he feels lighter and heavier all at the same time. Like a weight has lifted from his shoulders and settled into his stomach instead, pressing down on him, making him sick. He wipes angrily at his eyes and has the urge to throw the wallet across the room, but he doesn’t. He never does.

And then Steve’s fingers ghost along the edges of the anchor and Bucky is acutely aware of how exposed he is, still physically and now emotionally.

“It doesn’t,” Steve whispers.

Bucky’s eyes close and he finds himself leaning closer to Steve, searching for the comfort his voice gives.

“It doesn’t make you pathetic, Bucky. It makes you human.”

When Bucky opens his eyes, Steve’s are shockingly close and blue and deep and beautiful and then they’re kissing, Steve’s hand circling Bucky’s wrists, keeping him in the moment, even though his head is swimming and Steve’s lips are on his and his tongue is hot and wet and perfect.

Bucky leans into the kiss, but it doesn’t speed up, even though his heart does. It stays slow, and comforting, and almost _lazy_ , but perfect. It’s not passionate or sexy, but it’s exactly what Bucky wants and a sound escapes from his throat.

Steve’s other hand snakes behind Bucky’s neck, cupping the base of his skull carefully as he sucks Bucky’s bottom lip between his own and sucks gently, so gently, that Bucky feels himself coming apart at the seams.

The kiss goes on forever, but it ends eventually with Steve resting his forehead against Bucky’s and Bucky breathes in his scent. He pulls away after a moment and puts on his shirt, his head resting against the concrete and his eyes closed.

Steve’s silent for a while, but Bucky can’t find it in himself to regret anything. Not the story, not the tattoo, not the kiss – _especially_ not the kiss.

“I wanted to go to art school,” Steve says finally, breaking the silence once again. Bucky opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Steve.

“My parents… were not supportive. At all. Mom wanted me to be a lawyer and dad was hell bent on me getting a degree in business, but I never wanted any of that. I don’t know what made me do it, but for the first time in my life I decided that I was going to do what _I_ wanted to do, and not what someone else wanted _for_ me, so I told them that I was gonna go to art school. They cut me off, just like that. No warning, no nothing, and I went from a kid with a decent amount of money and a loving family to an orphan without a penny to my name. Had to do some… things I’m not proud of to pay my way through school…” Steve swallows thickly and Bucky is entranced, barely breathing and hanging on to every word like it might be the last.

“Wasn’t until senior year that I figured out I’d be a pretty decent personal trainer – which I also hated, but at least it wasn’t as… degrading. As the other stuff. Before.” Steve finally looks at Bucky and he has this sad smile on his face that makes Bucky want to march up to Steve’s parents and punch them both in the throat for ever hurting someone as amazing as him.

Especially if Steve’s saying what Bucky _thinks_ Steve’s saying, in which case he’d want to do a lot more than punch them in the throat.

Steve looks away. “But, yeah. I know what it’s like to have shitty parents. I’m sorry, not that my story compares to yours, but—”

“Hey, no,” Bucky interrupts immediately, frowning. “Just because someone else might have had it worse than you –and I’m not saying I did—doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t valid. If you’re happy but somebody else is happier, does make it not okay to feel happy? No.”

Steve smiles and this time it’s not so sad, which Bucky counts as a victory, and he nods.

“Point taken.”

“Good.”

Bucky’s about to lean in to kiss Steve again when the speakers overhead crackle to life and their flight is called.

**

Bucky boards the plane well before Steve does (first class is the _only_ perk that makes the incessant flying Hill puts him up with bearable) and when Steve finally passes him on the aircraft, they smile at each other knowingly, but don’t say anything. The people around them are all cranky as hell – which, admittedly, Bucky would be, too if he hadn’t spent the past four hours in a wonderful bubble falling half in love with a perfect stranger – and it would be a horrible idea for Steve to stop and chat and pause the boarding process.

That doesn’t keep Bucky from thinking about Steve the entire flight, though. He doesn’t sleep a wink, despite the fact that he’s absolutely exhausted. Bucky can’t get Steve’s face, his hands, his voice, his laugh, his humor, his _anything_ out of his head.

When they finally land, Bucky’s hustled out of the plane first (another perk on any other day, but now he kind of wishes he could stay and walk out with Steve). He’s stuck in the hoard of people who make their way to baggage claim like an inescapable wave. Every three steps, Bucky turns around and tries to find Steve, but he can’t spot that blond head of hair anywhere.

Bucky jumps when he feels a hand wrap around his wrist when he’s finally standing at baggage claim. When he turns, his entire body softens and he smiles at Steve standing in front of him.

Steve thrusts something at him and when Bucky looks down he realizes it’s a piece of paper. He takes it wordlessly.

“Call me, okay?” Steve says with a lopsided smile that ruins Bucky’s heart.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Bucky says, grinning right back at him. And he will. He absolutely, one hundred percent will.

“My ride’s waiting, so I have to run. I had a lot of fun tonight, Buck,” Steve says.

Bucky nods. “Go, don’t make your friend wait.”

They share a moment, an intimate moment by anyone’s measure, and finally, Steve breaks it, grinning harder and he turns around. Bucky watches the swing of his impossibly narrow hips.

Someone runs over his foot with their suitcase, jarring him out of his moment, and he’s finally brutally reminded of what he has to do tomorrow. Goddamn Maria Hill.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For more Marvel related excitement, follow my tumblr: www.emilyshay.tumblr.com


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